


be my quaran-tine

by anothercover



Series: runaways are running the night [2]
Category: Black Panther (2018), Captain America (Movies), Jessica Jones (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Rock Band, F/F, F/M, Female Friendship, Found Family, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, Rock Stars, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-16
Updated: 2020-07-16
Packaged: 2021-03-05 02:53:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25307050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anothercover/pseuds/anothercover
Summary: There are about seventeen different platforms available for video calls, but since no one could agree on which  was the best, Okoye went full-general and finally made a declaration: all group calls will be done via Google meets, everyone will use a computer and stay seated for the duration of the conversation, and no one will snack on anything crunchy or slurpy. “No more multitasking,” she ordered. “We’re gonna focus and be present for each other.”Months later, when they’ve been having these calls for far longer than anyone expected, Natasha’s sort of glad they put a formal structure in place. Anytime she’s had spurts of annoyance, she’s self-aware enough to know that the root cause is she’s sick of video calls, period – they’re weirdly draining, in a way she never would have expected. But it’s also the only time she gets to see anyone besides Clint, James, and randoms when it’s her turn to hit the grocery store; it’s this or nothing. She misses her friends.[A one-shot in therunaways are running the nightverse: Natasha, Nakia, Okoye, Jessica Jones, and Valkyrie are an all-girl rock band; Natasha, Clint, and Bucky are in a relationship, and now everyone's in quarantine, making the best of it.]
Relationships: Brunnhilde | Valkyrie/Jessica Jones, Clint Barton/Natasha Romanov, James "Bucky" Barnes/Clint Barton/Natasha Romanov, James "Bucky" Barnes/Natasha Romanov, M'Baku/Okoye (Marvel), Nakia (Black Panther)/T'Challa, Steve Rogers/Sam Wilson
Series: runaways are running the night [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1833106
Comments: 31
Kudos: 68





	be my quaran-tine

  
  
  


**now: 2020**

There are about seventeen different platforms available for video calls, but since no one could agree on which one was the best, Okoye went full-general and finally made a declaration: all group calls will be done via Google meets, everyone will use a computer and stay seated for the duration of the conversation, and no one will snack on anything crunchy or slurpy. “No more multitasking,” she ordered. “We’re gonna focus and be present for each other.”

Months later, when they’ve been having these regular video calls for _far_ longer than anyone expected, Natasha’s sort of glad they put a formal structure in place. Anytime she’s had spurts of annoyance, she’s self-aware enough to know that the root cause is she’s sick of video calls, period – they’re weirdly draining, in a way she never would have expected. But it’s also the only time she gets to see anyone besides Clint, James, and randoms when it’s her turn to hit the grocery store; it’s this or nothing.

She misses her friends. 

Quarantine, Natasha has learned by now, is just one pattern consistently repeating itself: there will be good, productive weeks when she gets some work done and feels generally normal and upbeat, and then there will be bad weeks when everything is garbage and the only sensible thing to do is sleep a lot and eat pie in bed. 

The trick is not to beat herself up on the bad weeks: literally everyone she knows is following this same pattern. If there’s anything to feel bad about, it’s that her bad weeks and Clint’s tend to sync and that means that James is the only one waking up before 2PM on those days. He finds stuff to _do_ – like making them pies specifically for bed-eating – but still. 

Today, though, is one of the okay days, and she settles herself in front of her Macbook in Clint’s home office, tucking in earbuds and swiveling around in his writing chair before clicking into the call a couple minutes early. 

Nakia jumps on a few seconds later, and Natasha breaks into a smile. They Facetimed last week, just the two of them, but it’s still nice to steal a couple extra minutes– especially now, when time’s been in much shorter supply for Nakia. She can barely find a second to get back to a text lately and Natasha’s tried not to inundate her. “Do we have a special guest on this call today?”

“We do,” Nakia confirms. “Want to say hi to Auntie Natasha, my baby?”

Nobomi looks at the camera with an enormous amount of skepticism for someone who only just learned how to hold her own head up. 

“I have sent you an absolute shitload of presents,” Natasha informs her niece. “You’re gonna need to get on board with me at some point if you want that to continue.”

Nakia laughs and shifts her daughter around on her lap, then starts to deftly wrap her up in a stretchy green swaddle that binds the baby to her chest. “She’ll probably fall asleep in a couple minutes. Sorry, T’Challa’s in the middle of a work thing.”

“Don’t apologize for having to parent your child,” Natasha says. “I’m glad you can be here. Is it going okay over there?”

“A little better every week,” Nakia says, though she still looks exhausted. Her pregnancy this time around was, for the most part, a pleasant experience. A little sciatic pain, some mild heartburn, and a couple weeks where sleeping just wasn’t happening, but overall, Val hadn’t been wrong when she’d dubbed Nobomi “the most chill fetus of all time.” 

The tradeoff for that, of course, meant that Nakia’s due date had come smack in the middle of quarantine. Delivering a baby in the middle of a worldwide pandemic was not a ton of fun, even for two people on the celebrity spectrum. It was terrifying, made worse by the fact that the rest of them were all helpless to make it any easier. Nakia and T’Challa’s parents both had planned to come stay, to help out for a few weeks, and that was entirely out of the question now. They were in this on their own. 

It was undoubtedly harder to be living it, but watching it, Natasha felt, was also its own special kind of hell: her best friend mired in new parenthood, which was already one of the toughest things to go through, with timing that made it even worse. Nakia being in Santa Barbara while she was in LA would have been tough anyway; she couldn’t pop over once an afternoon to say “Go take a nap or a shower, I can keep her alive for a couple hours,” as it was, but she would have made it a point to go up at least once a week. Now the option to do that had been taken away entirely. 

Plus, for all Natasha still feels ambivalent about parenthood herself, Nobomi is so fucking cute, with the fattest little cheeks and big brown eyes and she wants, _badly_ , to be able to pick her up and cuddle her and blow raspberries on her stupid chubby baby stomach. She should have been the first non-blood relative to get to hold that little girl, she should have gotten to rock her back and forth and whisper to her about all the adventures they were going to have together. She should be able to bring Nakia snacks and support and anything else she needed. T’Challa is a very devoted husband, but there’s some stuff a girl needs her best friend for. 

Still, it _has_ been getting better now that Nobomi’s chilled out a little about sleeping. Nakia promised she’s finally starting to feel like a person again, and it’s Natasha’s job to cheer her on from the sidelines if she can’t be there to do it in person.

“You look great, though,” she tells Nakia. 

“I actually put on lipstick for this,” Nakia says. “I was so excited to have an adult conversation. It’s a whole new goddamn world.”

The laptop gives two cheerful little _bing!_ noises in quick succession, and Okoye’s face pops up onscreen, followed by Val and Jess, who are squeezed into the same frame. “Heyyyyy, fellow War Dogs,” Jess greets, then smiles when she notices Nobomi. “Excuse me, fellow War Dogs and Skirmish Puppy.”

Val groans. “I told her to stop calling the baby that.”

“Telling her you hated it was the fastest way to ensure she’d keep saying it,” Okoye says. “How do I know your wife better than you do?”

“She still thinks she can improve me,” Jess says as she leans over to give Val a kiss on the cheek, the echo of which is so disgusting through the microphone that Nakia throws up her middle finger. 

Natasha grins in spite of herself. She loves all these assholes so much. 

“Hey, I’m supposed to ask if anyone wants more bread,” Okoye says. “We can drop it off at your front door and then wave at you from the street.”

“Whatcha got this week?” Natasha asks. 

“M’Baku is pulling his sixth loaf of banana bread out of the oven as we speak,” she answers. “He subbed in pecans for walnuts this time. He read something online about toasting them in a weird spice rub, so of course we have to test and see if that improves the experience.”

“I ate the entire loaf you brought us last week myself,” Val says. “I feel like I should say no, but it was really fucking good, so if you’re offering, we’ll definitely take more.”

“She means we’ll take two,” Jess says. “Is he planning to change it up at all? Didn’t you say he succumbed to the cliché and has a sourdough starter?”

“He’s not happy with it yet,” Okoye tells her. “I try not to ask about it, because his sadness over this is really disproportionate. He bakes twice as much to make up for it, like it’s his biggest failure of all time. Last week it was lemon bars, cinnamon buns, plum muffins, and – ”

“Whoa,” Natasha says. “You didn’t offer to bring me any plum muffins.”

“No,” Okoye agrees. “I did not.”

“Must be nice that he’s baking so much, though,” Nakia says. “I’d be pretty into that, if either of us had the energy to do anything other than open Postmates right now.”

“I’d be more into it if his new baking habit was accompanied by a new dishwashing habit,” Okoye says, but she’s smiling when she says it, so that’s okay.

“Anybody watched anything new?” Jess says. “I was reading a lot a couple weeks ago but right now I’m in a stretch where words are pretty much impossible.”

Natasha groans. “There’s been exactly one thing on in my house lately. Clint and James have now watched _Eurovision: The Story of Fire Saga_ four times. I’ve forgotten that the option to watch other movies even exists at this point. Clint is consumed. The last time I saw him so obsessed with something, I was the thing he was obsessed with because we had just fucked for the first time.”

“Oh God, Nat,” Nakia says sympathetically. “Do you need to move out?”

“Maybe?” Natasha says. “He’s obsessed with his own obsession! He can’t stop talking about how there are dozens of theories about comedy and what makes something funny, and how _Eurovision_ falls short on multiple levels, and yet he can’t stop watching it and he doesn’t understand why he finds it so compelling. He’s desperate to figure out why. He’s this close to making one of those serial killer boards and connecting everything with yarn.”

Everyone is quiet for a minute. 

Finally, Jess blinks. “Have you explained to him – ”

“I swear on my mother that I tried.”

“Wait – come on, no. He really doesn’t see…?” Nakia asks. 

“He really doesn’t.”

“ _But_ ,” Okoye says, then turns up her hands, apparently at a loss for words. 

“Natasha, you’re going to look me deadass in the eyes and tell me your husband doesn’t understand the problem is that he’s hot for Dan Stevens?” Val demands. “With the whole – I mean, the hair, the clothes, the _beard_ , Nat. Even the beard hasn’t tipped him off? He doesn’t realize Dan Stevens, in this movie, is basically just a blonde version of – ”

“My husband will not accept that he has a type at all, and my other husband refuses to accept that he himself _is_ a type,” Natasha says, entirely defeated. “I’m the only one in this house with eyes. Let’s just all try to move past this and nobody buy Clint a coffee table book about Downton Abbey for his birthday, okay? I’ve done spouse-related favors for all of you and I almost never ask for anything in return.”

Jessica’s eyes narrow. “When have you ever done a spouse-related favor for Val?” she asks suspiciously. 

“Hey, speaking of swearing on your mother, how’s Sarah doing?” Nakia asks, swiftly diverting the subject from unanswerable questions if Natasha’s friendship with Jess is going to continue. 

Though this is actually a slightly sore topic, and even thinking about it makes Natasha wish – just for a second – they were the kind of family that kept booze in the house. It’s not like they ever kept alcohol around before; their purchases were strictly limited to times they knew in advance they going to have guests over for dinner or something, but in quarantine, Natasha’s found herself envious of the ability to have a bottle of wine laying around or a stash of vodka in the freezer. 

Those impulses, though, are the exact reason why they have nothing in the house. If she finds _herself_ feeling that way some days, she can imagine how Clint feels, and it would be the height of asshole behavior to drink in front of him right _now_. There are things that are more important than her own ability to have a cocktail in sweatpants. She and James have suspected that he feels bad about this sometimes; they’ve reassured him that it’s not a problem, but it’s just another one of those shitty things about this year that everyone has to make their own kind of peace with. 

“Steve and I are… we’re trying,” she answers, honestly. “We really are. We both respect that she’s an adult, and it’s her call.”

“But…” Okoye prompts. 

“But oh my God, we both hate it so fucking much that she came out of retirement for this,” Natasha says, all in a rush of breath. “I know she’s an amazing nurse, I know every hospital in the county is short staffed, I am very aware this is who she has _always_ been and, like, I owe my entire life to the fact that Sarah Rogers is the world’s most selfless individual, but some days, my brain won’t stop screaming _auuuuuggghhh_. We had a family call a couple days ago and I could tell that every time Steve was about to start shouting at her, Sam pinched his hip. They must have arranged that before we all jumped on.”

“Anybody have to pinch you?” Val asks. 

“I’m not a Rogers by blood, so I have the ability to keep my mouth shut when I need to,” Natasha says. “I did not, however, let James join this call. I think Clint was actually physically sitting on him so that he wouldn’t jump on and shout at all the times Steve didn’t.”

She appreciates it, enormously, that none of her friends tell her that it’ll be okay. They don’t know if it’ll be okay. That’s what makes it all so scary. Sarah might get sick. If she does, she might not get better. The fact that it hasn’t happened yet doesn’t inoculate them from all the _mights_ entailed by the fact that she’s going into a hospital three days a week, and that’s because Steve and Natasha begged her to just go back part time if her mind was made up. 

But the hospital is lucky to have her. She’s doing a brave and selfless thing. If Natasha hates it for selfish reasons, she still knows that it matters that she’s supportive. And if she’s annoyed with her mom at all, at least it’s because her mom is doing something that matters and not just being one of those assholes who claims this is all a hoax and refuses to wear a mask. 

“She’s good right now, though, and Steve’s doing fine, too,” she adds. “He taught himself to sew and now he’s trying to make masks for the entire population of southern California. Sam bought him a machine to do embroidery detailing. They’re bored, but they’re okay.” 

“I bought a bunch of cool masks off Etsy yesterday,” Val says. “If anybody needs leftovers. I went a little nuts, but somebody made prints with our logo all over them, so I had to get some of those, and then somebody made them with little 90s cartoon characters, and then there was this one store that did all fruit prints….”

“I had no idea you were into fruit prints,” says Nakia. “That feels really off brand, V.”

“I didn’t either,” Val says. “Honestly, I think maybe I’m doing that thing where I’m falling victim to impulse shopping just for the brief burst of serotonin it gives me. I can’t tell you how much shit I’ve bought from targeted Instagram ads this month. Also, it only costs about two thousand dollars to buy a tiger? That’s less than _cars_.”

“What,” Okoye says, after a second. “What. Where. What. No. What.”

Jess heaves an enormous sigh that Natasha recognizes having heaved herself in the wake of yet another Eurovision viewing. “Please don’t listen to her. My wife took the exact wrong message away from that stupid fucking Joe Exotic miniseries.”

“The Tiger King era of quarantine feels like it happened a decade ago,” Nakia sighs. “I’m almost nostalgic.”

“Okay, but you all have to admit, that’s less than you would have expected a tiger to cost, right?”

“If necessary, I’m going to seize control of our finances,” Jess promises. “Please no one worry that we’re going to purchase a tiger. I’m not going to let that happen.”

“Wow,” Natasha says. “Jess is the responsible one. What the fuck even is 2020?”

“This is not 2020’s fault,” Jess says. “When we got married, we promised each other that we’d take turns being the responsible one, otherwise this was never going to last.”

“This might still not last if you don’t at least consider my alternate proposal,” Val says.

“ _No_ ,” Jess, Natasha, and Nakia all exclaim at the same time. Nobomi makes an irritated little noise in her sleep. It sounds like she agrees with them. 

“Fucking unbelievable,” Val says. “We once covered an _Oingo Boingo_ song for _Nat_ , but when I want to put our personal flair on a country-western slow jam with a subtextual clever narrative that builds into a dope diss track – ”

“Valkyrie, I would feed you to those tigers personally before I would ever let us cover ‘Here Kitty Kitty’,” Okoye interrupts. 

“If you know the title of the song, I don’t see why you think you get to be smug about it,” Val tells her.

Natasha smiles, because really, how is she supposed to not smile at that? “I miss all of you,” she says. “So much that it’s a little bit embarrassing.”

“Back at you, Nat,” Jess tells her, the rest of the band nodding along, too. 

They weren’t going to be able to tour this summer, with Nobomi on the way, which turned out to be kind of a blessing. The details of canceling everything when this is all still in such open-ended limbo would never have been their problem, but it still would have been their headache. But they would never have gone this long without coming together to at least talk plans for the next tour cycle, the next album, the next collaboration – or even just about whatever solo projects they might have wanted to get off the ground in the meantime. 

They’re being safe, and responsible, and doing that thing where they’re setting the tone on all their social media accounts about the importance of following the rules, even when it’s shitty and lonely. And it’s not going to last forever, even though it feels like it already has. 

When Natasha’s adding up the list of things to still be grateful for, though, this is on it. They’re still showing up for each other, in whatever way they can. It’s a privilege to have all of these women as her bandmates and her best friends. Always has been. 

She settles back in Clint’s swivel chair and tucks her feet up under her legs. “Okay, we should stop picking on Val. Everybody take turns telling the stupidest thing you’ve bought since quarantine started. I know we’ve all done it. No secrets in the War Dogs, that’s the deal.”

* * *

The call stretches on for another hour and a half, and by the time Natasha wanders out of the office, the sun’s starting to go down. Her stomach grumbles a little, and she detours to the kitchen to rummage around for something to snack on pre-dinner, though nothing’s really appealing. Food has gotten boring, in spite of everyone’s best efforts to keep it interesting.

She settles on a yogurt cup and grabs a spoon, swirling it around while she thinks about things she would rather be eating that would take too much time to actually compile. Blueberry waffles and bacon sound sort of good, probably because time has no meaning anymore. She wonders if she could sweet-talk James into making some for her; frozen waffles are not worth the time it takes to toast them. 

The kitchen’s quiet after so much time spent with earbuds in. It’s kind of nice. She rinses off her spoon, decides the dishwasher isn’t full enough to bother running yet, and heads to the living room in search of human contact and company. 

Clint and James are on the couch, curled up adorably in the exact spot she last left them. Clint’s head is still on James’s knee, with a creased paperback book propped open in front of him, though he’s made his way through a significant number of pages by now. James doesn’t look up from his Nintendo Switch, though occasionally he does drop a hand down to rub affectionately through Clint’s hair. 

James’s own hair, she notices, has gotten long and has billowed out to Dan-Stevens-in-Eurovision proportions. He won’t let her cut it, but she doesn’t blame him; last month, she did not necessarily do a great job when she tried to give Clint a trim, and it’s only now grown back to something more normal. 

Clint smiles when he sees her and puts the book down. “Good call?” he asks. “Everybody doing okay?”

“Mmhm,” Natasha says, coming over and sitting on the floor in front of the couch, tipping her head back against the cushions so that Clint can rub her neck. Bless him for needing no direction; his thumb starts digging into that one tendon that never seems to unclench anymore. “All good. More banana bread’s coming soon.”

“I’m trying to get him to start a separate Instagram account called The M’Bakery to post this parade of desserts, but the guy hates a portmanteau,” James says. “Puts a real strain on our friendship.”

“Sorry, baby,” Natasha tells him, closing her eyes as Clint’s thumb presses deep. “Ooof.”

He leans forward off the cushions and kisses the back of her neck, then gently tugs the elastic out of her hair to let it fall down. She’s worn it up in a sloppy topknot all day, and it does feel a little better without the weight.

“Dinner?” she says hopefully. 

“I could eat,” Clint says. 

“I cannot face the idea of cooking something that would take more than one step,” James tells them. “I love you both, but I want to sleep for a thousand years when I think about washing another vegetable right now.” 

“Fucking _same_ ,” Clint agrees. “I’m entering a phase where it’s just starting to seem like eating three times a day was a badly designed piece of human coding. Like, who can possibly think up stuff to eat this often? Why is this always my responsibility to make sure I’m doing it?”

“Fair,” Natasha says. She tilts her head back just far enough to see James and Clint exchange a look. “What?”

“You’re down to fragments and one word sentences,” James says, looking at her fondly. “We’ve gotta get you out of the house for a little bit, Nat. Change up the scenery.”

“Bleeerrrrgh,” she responds, which is how she knows he’s right. She rolls her head on the cushion to the side, just enough so that she can kiss the side of James’s knee. “Sorry I’m the quarantine blob today.”

“We’re taking turns being the blob, it’s part of what makes us such a functional triad,” Clint says, then slides off the couch, taking her by the hands and neatly tugging her up to her feet. “I’ve got an idea. You don’t even have to put on different clothes.”

Natasha looks down at the blue yoga pants she’s worn all week. Her tank top has a tiny splotch of dried yogurt right between her tits that she somehow must have missed while she was snacking. “I might not have to, but I think I’m going to just so I can see if I still remember how zippers are supposed to work.” 

“Neither one of us will complain if you’ve forgotten how bras work. I want that on the record,” James tells her, waggling his eyebrows, and she grins at him before heading up the stairs to change into something less comfortable. There’s never been such a long stretch of time when she’s felt less sexy; it’s a slightly incredible feat that they can still make her feel that way.

In the spirit of that, she forgoes the bra and puts on one of James’s white button down shirts, which is many, many sizes too big on her and just rolls up the arms to her elbows. She trades her yoga pants for actual underwear and jeans, then takes a page out of Nakia’s book and puts on lipstick and earrings. It helps make her feel at least a _little_ bit more like a person, even if the lipstick is going to get all over the inside of her mask once they’re outside. 

Downstairs, Clint’s spinning the car keys around his fingers, but James is still on the couch, clicking away on his Switch. “Why oh why did we ever think it was a good idea to buy Animal Crossing?” she says, rummaging through the bowl they keep by the door that’s filled with masks now, just so there’s no excuse to forget. She has some in various purses and the glove compartment of her car, too. “You never played video games before in your life and now look at you. Look what you’ve become.”

“Listen, I can love you, and love Clint, and love this little capitalist raccoon,” James tells her. “Honestly, I wouldn’t mind having the house to myself for a couple hours. I can Postmates some sushi and tell Steve to come visit my island. Maybe I’ll take Lucky for his twelfth walk of the day, too.”

“You sure?”

“Positive,” he says. “Wouldn’t say it if I didn’t mean it, Nat, I promise.” Natasha does see the appeal of having some alone time; she loves them, but now that they’re all here, all the time, always, she recognizes how much space was built into their lives before all this began. 

Clint bends down to kiss James goodbye, a slow, thorough kiss. “Enjoy the sushi. Can we bring you back dessert?”

“Proof of life from the outside world,” James agrees, smiling up at him. “Be good, sweetheart.”

“I’m so rarely anything else,” Clint says. “Anxiety’s good for something.”

* * *

Even after all these months, it’s still mildly creepy to be able to get around the city so quickly. They take the long way, with all the windows rolled down; when they go out now, even if it’s just to run quick errands, the drive itself has become part of the destination, part of what constitutes An Event.

There’s probably a song buried in there somewhere, but like almost everybody else, Natasha’s trying to not beat herself up about the fact that her creative output has been absolute shit lately. She’d feel like she was letting the band down if it was just her; she still feels that way sometimes, if she’s being honest, but nobody’s really on their game right now. 

“Did you know it only costs two grand to buy a tiger?” she tells Clint. 

He grins over at her from the driver’s seat. “Jess was telling me about that. I suggested they maybe start by fostering a cat.”

“I somehow don’t see the two of them as cat people.”

“I don’t see them as _big_ cat people, either,” Clint says, reaching over to squeeze her knee. “You look pretty.”

Her stomach does a happy little flip. “I feel like you should be bored with looking at me by now.”

“Yeah? You bored with looking at me?”

“No,” Natasha says honestly. She’s feeling much less bloblike with the wind in her hair, Clint beside her like it’s any other night and the world outside is normal again. “Never.”

He makes the turn onto Sunset and pulls into the drive thru line for In N Out, just a few seconds before her stomach lets out another well-timed rumble. “I can’t believe we’re just going to pull right up to the window,” he says, still surprised about it after all this time. “This feels like I made a wish with some very specific genie.”

“Or some very specific vengeful demon,” she teases, but he’s right: there’s something that feels so not _right_ about not seeing the line of cars stretch half the way up Orange Street. “Here, mask up. Preserve the anonymity.” 

“Okay, I do sometimes feel guilty for thinking that’s sort of a perk of the mask,” Clint admits. He orders for both of them, since Natasha’s order here has never deviated from script even once in all the time she’s lived in Los Angeles, and by the time they get their food packed into three fragrant, grease-spotted bags, she already feels _much_ better. Much less bloblike. Little pieces of normalcy, as safe as they can make them, have a way of working a tiny bit of magic. 

He swats her hand playfully away from her strawberry and vanilla swirl shake when she reaches for it, though. “This is not the final destination,” he says. “We’ve got one more stop. We can eat when we’re there.”

“James’s shake will get all melty,” Natasha says, but she’s intrigued in spite of herself. 

“Then we’ll be good partners and get him a fresh one on the way back. I want to take you one last place.”

She’s intrigued, but she doesn’t have long to wait for her answer. A few more minutes down the strip and Clint makes a turn onto Cahuenga, which is similarly deserted, and makes an extremely crappy U-turn to slide backward into one of the metered street parking spaces, so they’re still facing Sunset. 

Natasha considers heckling him for his truly terrible driving, but when she looks out the window, she understands why Clint brought her here. Her heart gives a little twist, and she slides the armrest between them up and scoots over so that she can curl into his side. Clint drapes an arm over her shoulder, understanding. 

The lights are still on over Amoeba’s marquee, a detail which tugs at something inside her. 

The store was supposed to move in the fall. The War Dogs had been working with Tony to plan a surprise set there in the last week this location would be open before the big move. Natasha had written the management a personal letter, basically begging to be part of their last week calendar lineup, knowing goddamn well the War Dogs did not have to beg for anything and that even if Amoeba _hadn’t_ had room, they probably would have bumped someone off the list in favor of getting the War Dogs. She still wanted to make sure she had absolutely sealed the deal. 

But the pandemic forced its doors closed a month into quarantine. They’re still planning to open at the new location, they’re not disappearing entirely, but – this was one of her places, like she told Clint on their very first date. They had their first kiss in there, sorting through bins of posters. Sometimes she thinks the safety of Amoeba, wrapped around her inside that moment, is one of the major reasons she allowed herself to admit that Clint Barton was someone she could fall in love with after so many years of heartache. 

This is the building that gave her one of the loves of her life. The best first date she’d ever been on hit its peak on the other side of those walls.

Clint kisses the top of her head. “I wanted to make sure you got to see it one last time. Before they dismantle the sign and everything. I wanted to see it with you.”

“I wish I’d known the last time I was there was the actual last time I would ever be there,” she tells him, which is just one of dozens of little pre-quarantine regrets that aren’t her fault, where she couldn’t have done anything differently, but it still just feels crappy. “It feels like a silly thing to be upset about with all the _real_ stuff, but…”

“This is a very dumb year,” Clint says. “I wish we could whisk you off to Paris, or Morocco, or – honestly, I think we’d all probably settle for a long weekend at a Holiday Inn Express in Fresno at this point.”

“Truer words,” Natasha agrees. 

“But in the absence of being able to do that, I _can_ sit here and split some animal fries with you, and look at those lights while I tell you all about the best first date I ever went on back in 2008, with this gorgeous redheaded bartender. It’s a pretty good story. Ends with a wedding and a couple Grammys and a bunch of other stuff.”

Natasha smiles, tilts her chin up and tugs him down for a kiss. They have the boulevard all to themselves right now, and like Clint once said – it’s here tonight, and you never know what’s going to happen until it happens. Back on that first night, she never would have believed that Amoeba would have managed to last another full twelve years on this particular corner. 

Sometimes good things surprise you, even when it all seems hopelessly shitty. 

“I like your stories,” she tells him. “Tell me all about it. From the very beginning.”

Clint strokes his knuckles along the side of her cheek in a move she’s always loved. “Hey,” he murmurs. “When we get home, I was thinking we could keep this date night going. We should try watching that live action Beauty and the Beast again. I bet I won’t fall asleep again this time.”

“Oh, I bet you won’t,” Natasha says, and pulls him back down to her mouth so she can swallow the laugh that’s trying desperately to escape. He's such a nerd. 

She adores him.

  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> I always kind of figured I might come back to this universe to check on these dummies! I packed literally every quarantine cliche I could think of into it as I was writing.
> 
> There were a lot of things that went into this. A big one was Amoeba's gone and _I'm stupid emotional about it_ , but to be fair, I can get emotional about anything lately. The list of stupid shit I have teared up over in the last two weeks includes: the movie Eurovision (never gonna understand why, it's a mystery); an episode of The Bold Type; the ending of book I didn't even like; one of my neighbors watched Return of the King and I know better than to watch Lord of the Rings myself when I am this sensitive but I could still hear Into The West faintly through my open window and I honestly don't know why I expected any other reaction from myself; JK Rowling has gone full Umbridge (these were rage tears!!); friend said something nice I was not anticipating; Hamilton obviously; other stuff I'm forgetting because getting briefly teary now happens roughly as often as sneezing. Plus also the world's, like, generally on fire. I mean, that's nothing new but the last month has been especially roasty. 
> 
> Anyway: most people I know also feel stressed or fragile or both or everything else lately, so I hope this was a brief respite that made you smile. I love this little universe and it was fun to get to play in it again for a couple hours. Stay healthy; tell your people you love them, loudly and often; wear a mask.


End file.
